The Broken Heart's Best Weapon
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: "An occasion, from what she generally knew, usually marked with gentle embraces and affection was so heated and violent." AU, Post "Skin Deep."
1. Knitted Squares

**A/N:** Hello, dearies! :) I took a brief break from Cabbages to write this little one shot involving a very AU scenario to contribute to the outbreak of angst going on. I hope you enjoy it as much as you have enjoyed Cabbages, and please R&R! I love hearing what you all think. Also, don't own, sadly enough.

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><p>"Rumpelstiltskin..." Belle's voice, normally so steady and unemotional, quivered anxiously, trying to garner his attention from his log book. She was sure her name appeared somewhere in those pages, a dark dealing that was. She felt a pang in her chest, reduced to a completed payment…<p>

His dark eyes scanned the pages, only glancing up at her momentarily. He had taken her back, but there was no warmth there anymore. He didn't have to say anything when he regarded her; his eyes were bored, verging on impatient. Belle took a deep breath, shaking her head and lowering her eyes, "Nothing."

He sighed with disgust and turned his attention back to his book, making a violent mark on one of the pages. The scratching of the quill accompanied her walk away. Where he had once made her feel light and happy, she felt heavy and disheartened now. He didn't subject her to outside tortures, but she did not imagine they would feel any worse than this.

"_Do not kiss me."_

So, they did not kiss. They had explored every other part of one another now, all parts except their lips. Belle lost that sense of shame, of embarrassment, and girlish excitement. She also lost the curiosity about what it would feel like to kiss him – she imagined it would be just as empty and hallowing as everything else. She was, after all, just the Beast's whore. When she had left, it was whispered wherever she went, drifting along the roads she traveled and simultaneously provided for her, while also being exceptionally isolating. No one would deny her, but at the same token, no one talked to her, for fear of retribution.

It was clever, if he even intended it. He had cursed her, inadvertently. And true love, if such a concept existed, would not restore her. Honestly, all of this was not what she imagined in her romantic daydreams of old. In every fairytale, it all started with a kiss.

_There was no kissing here, and no fairy tale_.

Embraces were not intimate, touches were not soft or gentle, and more than once she had been bruised and sore, kind words, or any words at all, were not exchanged; the whole act was purely physical and selfish, for both of them. When it was over, when they were both spent, neither spoke a word to the other. And she didn't stay - she never stayed. There was no secret or shame in her slow trudge away every evening, not even bothering to clutch her nightgown to herself: her body was his for the taking, nothing sacred or pristine, like so many stories suggested. Then she would crawl into her bed and lay awake, staring at the ceiling, sometimes curled up on her side, looking at the wall.

She did not cry though. She refused to cry. After all, if one did not care, they couldn't cry; at least that's what she told herself. She repeated to herself over and over the feelings of being used, and betrayed, and hurt, and empty every single time. Reassurances that she was not craving anything but physicality were daily mantras, sometimes silent and sometimes quiet whispers while she worked. But, these utterances died on her lips when she saw him, the feeling of being wrenched apart from the chest too strong for even her words to combat.

She was not brave anymore.

This was cowardice in its finest, and he had pulled her into it. Taking refuge in the arms of one who did not love her – it felt like every dance she had ever engaged in at court. It was about performing, and it never seemed like either of them got much more than a quick thrill out of it.

They had overlooked a simple complication, however. At first, she had been so oblivious. She blamed arduous work for her fatigue and her feelings were the root of her nausea. The fact that she had so many memories attributed to certain meals was obviously the reason for her disdain for particular bits of fare. Then, of course, there was something she could not explain. Its absence perplexed her, but rather than turn to her master, she turned to the library. When she read, Belle cursed herself – wished for anything else, just anything, even death. But this was not death, even if she felt like t.

He still did not know. Belle twisted with anxiety every time they were in a room together, and sometimes she could not help but run out of the room, clutching back the bile and keeping this secret safe. She had been so young – and so naive… he should have known that, but then, how well did he really know her? He had denied her and declared her love impossible. He didn't know her at all.

And she paid the price.

That evening she took up knitting needles near the fire. She would take the plain, cream colored yarn and weave it into a series of simple squares. She'd make dozens of them, she resolved, and put them together. She could make something out of this – she had made more out of less, she thought bitterly.

When he threw the doors open, Belle did not even flinch. His antics did not thrill or surprise her anymore. She would not be disturbed, so much so that she already had his tea on the tray, so she did not have to lift her eyes from her work.

The knitting needles clicked and clacked against one another, a rhythm she found somewhat comforting in all of the madness she was experiencing in her head. Maybe she had gone crazy, she reasoned, maybe that was why she felt so lost and alone, and _stupid_. She had never felt stupid before, and she cursed herself repeatedly, only to immediately rescind every curse and preserve what little she had left.

For some reason, beyond all reason, she felt so protective of this. Like it was something she could cling to. And she wanted to provide as much as she could. It was not as though he looked at her enough to see any differences in her anyway. And the warm glow people spoke of certainly didn't color her skin – she felt sallow and sad, and whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw everything she felt staring back out at her.

When he walked in, he barely looked at her, and gruffly muttered some greeting or another – she didn't pay him mind. She seldom ever returned a greeting, and rarely spoke first anymore. Better to be seen and not heard, only speak when spoken to, all of that nonsense. If he wanted a demure housekeeper and whore, he would have that. She only went along with it because she knew it was precisely what he did not want. He had hurt her, and she found empty relief in spite.

"_What_ is _that_?" he asked with a sneer, motioning to the three squares of white, weaved fabric already on the ground.

Belle did not look up from her project – the clicking and clacking continuing under her watchful, light eyes, "Knitted squares."

"I can see that," he growled. Obviously her simple answer was not pleasing to him, and he walked toward her. In a moment she was looking at the toe of his leather boot tapping right in front of her. Part of her was surprised he did not kick her. She could certainly see his muscles pulled taught with agitation under his tight pants and thin shirt. "What are the squares for?" he clarified with a growl deep in the back of his throat.

Her answer required only two words, "A bastard."

The needles continued to click, and she did not look up. But his foot stopped tapping. His stillness did not intimidate her, and all along she just clicked and clacked. Anger hummed in his throat and he stalked away from her, stopping a few feet, turning back toward her, just to walk away, a roar of frustration ripping out his throat. All she did was click-clack.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up one of the remaining, mismatched teacups and threw it across the room. It crashed on the wall behind her. She did not look up. _Click-Clack. _Another flew over her head, and crashed into the wall in the same way. _Click-Clack. _

She heard the clink of the last cup come off of the tray. Only now did she look up, seeing the chipped cup in his tense hand. He looked so angry, conflict clearly registering on his grey-gold face. Belle's expression was blank. "Go ahead," she said calmly, "it's just a cup."

He snarled at her provocation and put the cup back on the tray. She wished he would have done it – she wished he would have thrown it right at her, so she could reassure herself once again that all of this was empty, and all of her hurt feelings could disappear. Instead, she felt her chest muscles tighten and her eyes sting. "What have you done?" he practically bellowed, crouching over her, meeting her cool eyes with his blazing, angry, hurt ones.

She stopped knitting now. Her hands folded demurely on her lap as she looked up at him, unafraid of him. He would not hurt her, she had begged for it so many times in her sleepless nights – it would give her so much relief, but no relief came. "Correct me if I am wrong," she quirked one eyebrow, the rest of her face remained unchanging, "but I believe it takes two."

He raised his hand, his fingers twitched, all of the muscles in his body clenched to avoid doing what he very clearly wanted to do. She could see how he wished to smack her for her insolence. And, instead of flinching, she turned her head and offered her cheek. Her eyes blazed, _hit me. _She dared him; _hit me. _

Instead, he stood up and stalked away again. She knew he wouldn't do it. "What are you going to do to me?" she hissed after him, throwing the needles on the floor before she pushed herself up. "Going to throw me out again?" she flung the accusation at him without remorse, "Or magic up some kind of deal – wrench _this_ away from me too? Tell me," she stalked after him – he was now very still, perhaps shocked that this was the most she had said to him in a single period since she had come back, "does it thrill you? Do you delight in ripping my heart to pieces, Rumpelstiltskin?"

His face was dark and he grabbed her by both arms in a second – she almost didn't see him move, and he squeezed. She tried not to gasp, but failed. "You're a funny one to ask such a question," he spat, his lip curling and he let her go, shoving her away from him. His hands now found hold in his wiry hair. He was seething, like a cornered animal. She looked on bitterly: as though he was the one who should feel so ensnared.

Belle rubbed her upper arm and shook her head. She would surely bruise. An occasion, from what she generally knew, usually marked with gentle embraces and affection was so heated and violent. "You have no heart," words were the broken heart's best weapon, and she leaned down to pick up the knitted squares, her needles, and the ball of yarn. She clutched them fiercely.

He barked a laugh at her, trying to show her he didn't chip with every cruel word she said. She knew better – his shell cracked just as much as hers did whenever they were cruel to one another. "I am going to my room," she informed him, lifting her chin with the grace of a queen. She saw him look at her, the anger dissolving for only a second, before it came back in full force, and she opened her mouth before him. "Find whatever deal you can," she said dismissively, "I'm sure you won't mind getting rid of this problem, just like all of the others."

And with that, she strode out of the room, leaving him dumbfounded behind her. He did not know well enough to chase – to do _anything_. Belle's knuckles were white around the needles and yarn, and she willed herself to avoid crying. She would not give him the satisfaction.


	2. Choices

**A/N: **Too many good questions have been raised about what happens next, and then the idea of telling it from another perspective _really_ intrigued me. So, I did it, hah. Thanks to those that reviewed, favorite'd, and followed. I'm looking forward to hearing more of what you have to say, and I hope what I do continues to interest you! Thank you so much, and enjoy! Also, I don't own OUaT, that is all! Now, on with the show.

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><p>"I will!" he screeched after her – his voice almost unrecognizable, even to himself. She did not jump or look back at him. She might have been dreadfully clumsy, but when it came to confrontation, she was damnably graceful. It was in moments like this that he cursed her royal upbringing. She handled herself so well, and here he was, panting and seething, like an animal. If he had not… he couldn't think the words, she would have been a queen. Now she nothing to the rest of the world, and he convinced himself she held the same status here: <em>nothing<em>.

The large doors swung shut and clattered behind her; he could hear her heels clicking with determination as she walked. Anyone else would have earned the worst he could do with how angry he was. He could not even conjure a spell to scare her.

Standing silently in the main hall, Rumpelstiltskin got an immediate sense of stillness, even though he felt like his whole body was vibrating. Honestly, he could not even focus while he felt so full of frustration. His heart was beating so fast, there was a vile taste in the back of his mouth – burning up from his stomach. The whole conversation played over and over in his head – the way she had remained so calm – _A bastard – _and his reaction.

"_We're expecting," his wife had shyly revealed to him, full of sweetness and smiles over their basic dinner in their basic home. At first, he opened his mouth to inquire as to what they were expecting – but the soft look in her eye, the blush to her cheeks – it was not difficult to decipher. A grin so wide his cheeks started to hurt spread across his features. Even in their humble state, he could provide, and he leapt up from the table to sweep her into a hug – no dinner was eaten that night. _No dinner would be eaten tonight either.

Taking her back had been a mistake, but what other option did he have? When he took her in, he knew it was forever – he had made her that promise. If she went back, she'd be shunned. (_Was it not the same fate here?_) She had gone and ruined the arrangement, with her feelings – her lack of self control. Rumpelstiltskin could have broken her – maybe he did. He breathed out, trying to steady his pulse.

"_Do you think I'll be a good father?" he asked and felt so naïve. His wife had smiled, she laughed with him – though his laugh was of the nervous sort. She pushed his hair from his eyes and kissed him so tenderly without a word, reassurance enough for an anxious man. They laid together and he held her tight. _He had held her tight… too tight. She was going to bruise.

His marks were not for her. Whenever he saw her in the dim light, the marks of his touch glared up at him against her pale, perfect skin. It reminded him daily, the branding on her skin was just another way to help convince him she was playing games. No woman could love something that did that to her.

"_I've been called," his voice shook and hands trembled, realizing what this meant for them. Ogres were beasts, unimaginably strong and lager than three men stacked atop one another, and probably three or four times as wide. He could see her eyes welling with tears – an inevitable widow with the last remnants of himself left inside of her stood before him. She lurched forward and grabbed onto him. _She left marks too. Unlike his, they were not visible.

How close he had come to striking her – how he had to will himself to put his hand down. When he looked in her eyes and saw the strength there, he couldn't hurt her. He wished he could – it would save him so much trouble, to be able to say she was like anyone else – she was not sacred, or special, or _anything_ to him. And yet, he knew better.

And worse, she knew too. She played that game with him constantly – begging silently for him to show her how much he did not care. To what ends, he could not possibly know. _Coward_, he hissed in the back of his mind.

"_You are nothing!" she cried, and then laughed with such bitterness it shook her whole self, "That'd be a compliment – you – you're a coward, and a liar!" The baby, Bael, cried from the bed. She did nothing to sate him, all she did was gather the few things she had, and he, Rumpelstiltskin, had to do it himself, lifting the poor thing, barely a year old, and cradled him in his arms while she flung insult, after insult. He anticipated a welcome – what he got was anger. _There was so much anger.

He shook his head and walked up the stairs to his tower. What was he going to do? He rubbed his face with his hand and sighed. Stupid girl, foolish girl… _Stupid monster, _his mind cut back at him. She was right – she was always right and it infuriated him.

How could he have not seen this coming? He saw _everything._ He was supposed to be aware of all; every aspect of his deals was accounted for. And yet, when it came to her – his foresight was gone. She clouded his senses, overwhelmed him, and he felt an onslaught of every emotion when he was in her presence. Mostly, he felt furious now – and this was no exception. The feeling was magnified a thousand times over. He wished he had followed her – had screamed at her, but he let her go. _You always do. _

_She walked out the door, and he never saw her again. There he was, a man alone with a child. Worse than that, he was a coward left alone with a child. But, what else could he do? He had to take care of him. And then everything fell apart. _It had been good for a while, it always was; but eventually, everything fell apart.

Getting as far from her as possible right now was the best decision he could make. In his room, he loosened his vest and threw it to the side. He felt hot – his whole body was broiling, and he tugged at the roots of his hair. In an instant, he was just yelling. Pulling at his hair, he felt some of the tension leaving his body before he went to the desk. He picked up the little mirror and looked into it.

For a moment, he could see his dark eyes, glaring down at the pane of glass. He wondered if this was how she saw him, and then wondered how she did not recoil with disgust – why she did not strike out at him. A growl bubbled up from the back of his throat, "Show me the girl."

The mirror hazed over and Rumpelstiltskin started to see her figure form through the clouds. She was not knitting, that was lying on her bed behind her. He was vaguely surprised, to be perfectly honest; she was standing in front of the mirror in her room, sideways. He could see her clearly now – his hand mirror looking directly into her face from her own mirror.

Her hands were splayed across her lower abdomen, she was gazing into the mirror, but her eyes were blank. She looked like a living corpse – all thinned out cheeks and blank expressions. The most emotion he had seen since he recovered her from outside of her father's castle was worn on her face in the hall. Now, she looked so impassive. He couldn't decide what she was thinking.

Anyone else, he would have had figured out in a second. But, even staring right into her face, with such a strong jaw and sharp eyes, he was hopeless. Maybe he just told himself he could not see what was plainly written there, but he had to sleep somehow… All he could rely on were his observations; she was breathing heavily, a hand running upward. She was not shy about herself, that was for certain, and he shifted uncomfortably as she filled her dainty hand.

How he had not noticed her… development was beyond him. He spent so much time becoming acquainted with her body; how did it slip (literally) through his grasp?

It was impossible to stay upstairs. He could not, and he slammed the mirror down onto the desk. Thankfully, it was protected with magic, or it would not have survived the assault. Rumpelstiltskin at least felt slightly calmer, even if his mind was spinning, his heart was no longer threatening to burst out of his chest. The vest remained strewn on the floor, like most of his clothes every other evening, and he approached the stairs, slowly descending.

The way he wished for this to go played in his mind as he strode down the hall. He was fooling himself; he knew that, he could not control this situation anymore than he could control her. But he fought for it; every single time they were in one another's presence there was an unspoken tug-of-war. They fought bitterly for it, even without words: their looks challenged one another, and it moved between the two of them seamlessly.

If they were not so broken, they could have been unstoppable.

Rumpelstiltskin lifted his hand to rap on the door, but her voice cut through the air, and resonated through the heavy wooden doors, "Do not." He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end – she was infuriating. He snaps his fingers and the doors open.

"I will do as I like," he hisses at her, though the threat is empty. Anything worse than entering her room, he does not think he can do. Since he stopped looking in the mirror, she has moved, sitting in the chair by the fire.

She does not turn as the doors open, and her face is obscured by the shadows cast from the dancing flames. "You always do," she answered plainly. Her body is stock still, and he can tell, even from this angle that her eyes are closed.

While he bristles and boils, she just simmers. Underneath that calm exterior, he knows she is suffering as much as he is. Unfortunately, that does not bring him any relief. "You have choices," he says without any preamble. He does not wish to prolong this discussion, and he can only think to offer some choice in this, she had little choice in anything else, after all.

"Do I?" she asks lazily, disinterested. He can see she is building walls, brick by brick. He knows her assumptions – she had all but thrown them right in his face earlier. She made a steeple with her hands in front of her – casting another shadow over her face. One of many shadows.

He restrained himself, swallowing hard. It would not do well to scream, no matter how much he wanted to, he was going to refrain. He flexed his hands by his sides and cracked his neck. "You do," he responded flatly, deciding it was best to clasp his hands behind his back. Oh how she worked him. "And if you keep quiet," he sneered, "I can outline your choices."

She glanced back at him. He could see the flames dancing in the reflection of her light eyes, or maybe it was just her. He couldn't tell the difference. She was silent, even if her nostrils were flared, and she looked like she had little patience for him. How the tables had turned. "There's always an outside… _deal,_" he lingered over the word, licking his lips just a little as he did, it was the first thing she had suggested, "and then, there are… remedies…" he looked at her. He might have been a monster, but he wasn't a liar. "You would not have to carry this _burden_ past sun-up," he added, as if it were to tempt her.

Her face screwed, but she remained silent. He could read that expression, clearer than any print on any page. _No_. "Or…" he drawled slowly, darkly with a deep voice. She raised her eyebrows, the third option always intrigued them, she was – after all, still making a deal here, "you can keep it."

Belle look startled, for only the briefest of moments. Her eyes widened slightly and her jaw slackened. "Don't be so shocked," his voice changed, suave, almost. It pleased him he could still surprise her, and the smirk on his face was probably just one more dark reminder of such a thing, "I always give choices."

Belle remained quiet. She closed her mouth and turned back toward the fire. "I need time," she stated simply, distantly. She was watching the fire, her eyes scanning the dancing flames and popping embers. If he was not so furious with her, he might have thought her lovely in this light – she would always be lovely, he thought with a frown.

"By the looks of it," he started, "you have six months." And that was all they had to say. Option two had been disregarded, but one and three still stood. He did not know what he preferred. It was not as though he had any special reverence for mothers, particularly ones who could abandon their children and he turned on his heel. She did not beckon him to stay, and he had enough of her for the evening. _You'll never have enough of her,_ his mind reminds him and he sighs.

It went better than he anticipated, almost like he imagined it – and it made him wonder, again, what game she was playing at. If this was no game, they were certainly torturing one another for nothing, after all.


	3. Practical Matters

**A/N: **Thank you everyone for the kind words, favorites and follows! I really appreciate it and hope my stories continue to please, as well as continue to get your fantastic feedback. This chapter is on the short side, but the next is _really _fun. (Yes, temptation.) Obligatory do not own statement , and with that, on with the show!

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><p>She did not sleep that night, and it was not for the normal reasons. She did not climb the stairs to his room, she did not engage in that empty, meaninglessness. Belle was all alone, well, she thought bitterly, not really. Curses and blessings interchangeably left her mouth as she talked to herself, trying to piece together what was to become of her – of her… <em>their…<em>child.

When he left the room, she flung her cloak over the mirror. She knew how all of he mirrors in this place worked, and she didn't want him to watch her struggle – wage another war with herself while she had to constantly wage war against him. She had learned from both her father and Gaston a two front war was the surest path to destruction.

If she was not on the path to destruction, she did not know what would take her there. _No one decides my fate but me. _She laughed at herself, so simple then – so consumed with the desire to be a heroine. It had made her the consort to a false villain and a villain by association. A lesser one, she reasoned, as her spite and bitterness only came after she had offered him everything and he had thrown it all away.

She lay on her side, her hands splayed on the flat plane of her lower abdomen. It was harder than it had been, but nothing noticeable. He had suggested she get rid of the child – there were things she could take… many thoughts of the sort crossed her mind, she longed to spite him in that way – show him just how easy it was to get rid of parts of him so interwoven with her.

All of it was motivated by spite though, and when she reminded herself of that – that she would be destroying something just to destroy him, she couldn't… it made her sick to her stomach. It was not fair to the newest consideration in her life. She felt like she was the only one who had to make this consideration. He offered her choices to make his interactions in this arena less filled with guilt. Whatever she decided, she realized, was hers to own: he was not going to take responsibility.

She twisted in her bed, her thoughts playing over and over, weighing the pros and cons she had to consider until before she knew it, there was light streaming in through the window. She had fallen asleep, despite her unease, and realized she did not feel rested at all. Sleep was apparently not enough, and her unease was clouding any relaxation she could have had. Then there was that feeling…

Belle pushed herself out her bed, tripping over her nightgown and stumbling to relieve her nausea. Though she tried not to her, her eyes were stinging and as she wretched, tears slipping down her cheeks – and her hair entirely in the way. It was not because of her rush of emotions that in an instant that she was sobbing – she just felt so awful.

No conclusions had been reached, and here she was, crouched on the ground, retching into another room's abandoned chamber pot that she had swiped for the purpose. Her shoulders heaved and Belle choked on her sobs, wondering what she was in store for in the next six months. Was this the worst it was to be? She hoped so.

Wiping her eyes, she stood and was instantly aware she had to bathe. She slipped her feet into her leather booties and exited her room, quietly as possible. If she could escape seeing him this morning, seeing him like this she would – and she did. He was probably avoiding her as well. They had so little to talk about.

And indeed, they continued to walk circles around one another. Avoidance became the dance of the days, then weeks. They barely spent even a meal together. Belle delivered his on the tray, and she ate in the kitchen. It was her choice, of course, she dictated most around here. He might have ruled with an iron fist and fear outside of the castle, but inside, Belle was the mistress of the house, and she dictated its patterns. It was just another aspect of their war.

When she was not cooking, she was reading – and after finding an empty, leather bound book, she started writing. She wrote everything she was feeling, she wrote letters to the child that was growing inside of her, she wrote letters to her empty lover, it was everything and nothing in a notebook.

It was not until three weeks later that another word was spoken between them. It was made easier by the fact he had disappeared for much of it, about two weeks on 'business.' When he got back, he smelled of alcohol and looked a complete fright. He did not emerge from his room for two days after his stumbling return. Belle sighed, whenever she looked at him, she hoped he saw what was clearly written all over her face: _coward. _

His suffering did not concern her right now. She was selfish, and unabashedly so. Her dresses were growing tight, both on the top and bottom, and she was so uncomfortable. She had tried to let the out as much as she could, but no amount of stitching was going to help anymore. She groused to herself and wore her laces loose when she could. When he was not home, she stole his shirts and wore them instead. They smelled like him, she thought: was she pining?

No. She scowled at herself. She did not pine for him. They were not like that anymore. It was foolish to think so. It was just… whatever was going on with the child, she assured herself. She was uncomfortable, and emotional. So, when he finally emerged from his drunken isolation, Belle had a practical matter to attend to.

"I need new dresses," she said pointedly, pouring tea in that damnable cup. It was the only one of its set left – he had smashed all of the others. That temper, she rolled her eyes, laying her hand on her stomach, she hoped the little one did not inherit that particular trait. She could not say what she wanted out of him or her – she went back and forth daily (sometimes hourly) on whether or not she actually wanted the little him or her.

Rumpelstiltskin regarded her with a careful eye. He did not speak immediately, probably to his advantage and nodded slowly. "I can see that." Belle looked at him crossly. His lips twitched – was that a smile? It died on his lips when she glared and his shoulders rose and fell with a silent breath. "I will fetch them for you tomorrow."

She nodded, her expression softening into indifference. She was not feeling particularly cross, except when he looked at her like she was foolish and then tried to make a fool of her. As she got older – she felt decades older – she took on more and more qualities of the woman she only vaguely remembered as her mother. She had been so proud and regal. She liked to think, when she walked tall, her chin held high – she embodied her heritage. She was the royal one here, and she did not wish for him to forget it.

For once, the silence between them was not fraught with vibrating tension. Belle took a seat by the fire, letting out a deep breath as she kicked her shoes off. He glanced over at her. "Are you alright?" His question was not directly filled with concern, but his eyes betrayed him.

She shrugged. "Fine," all of her replies were simple now. She did not detail, at length anything she was doing or how she was feeling. She just gave him what he needed to know and kept the rest of it to herself. Most of her feelings over-flowed onto the pages of her diary, her handwriting scrunched and scrawling, preserving as much space as possible. She anticipated needing it for a long time.

He was just nodding and looking into his teacup. The steam traveled up his nose, and she imagined the sweet smell of honey and lemon was pricking the inside of his nose. It was her favorite. She supposed he tolerated it, merely for the fact that she was quite obviously pregnant and ornery.

The only sound between them was the crackling of the embers. Rumpelstiltskin clicked his tongue. "Have you made a choice, yet?" he asked, glancing at her. She had quite a lot of time to think about it, at least from what she heard about the deals he made. Most of the deals did not get this kind of consideration. They needed to make a choice the second it was offered. He was not a patient man, but here he was, offering all the time in the world.

He would always offer her that time. "No." He disappeared into his teacup, and she put hers down, trading it in for her knitting needles and creamy white yarn. "I need more time." _Click-clack._


	4. Movement

**A/N: **Thanks to all of my readers who have been following this story and being really supportive about how it's being written and what's going on. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying it. Please continue to enjoy, R&R, and there will always be more to come! Also, unfortunately do not own.

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><p><em>She is not my wife<em>.

He reminded himself of this fact daily, and it made the progression of her condition easier to bear, easier to look at. She got fuller, started to… glow, particularly as her sickness left her. Perhaps, had she not attempted to take everything away from him with one swift kiss, he would have had his hands all over her. Because she was not his wife, he could assuage the desire to know what her changing body felt like, instead of just imagining it while laying awake at night.

Her condition, for the most part, excused her from normal duties, including those of lover. She slept in her room, and he barely slept at all. There was a part of him that missed the desperate way they clung to one another, the way they grabbed hold and didn't let go until the very end. They did not touch at all anymore. It was like living with a stranger. That was not her only abandoned post either; she could not climb – he had taken all of the ladders away, just in case. She would spite him, surely, complaining of the non-existent dust (if she hadn't realized by now, he could do anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers), and then she'd fall, and he'd hate the sight of her even more.

At least, with her healthy rounded figure and fuller face, he could not hold himself accountable for any more misery. He had done enough to her without doing that. She was to make her choice, and he refused to influence it. All he could do was make sure she was eating and sleeping: this way, whatever choice she made, to make a deal or keep the child (no matter how much he tried to force himself to think of he or she as a _thing_, he could not), he or she would not suffer because of her spite.

If he was being honest with himself, he did not think she would stoop so low as to purposefully harm the child anyway. If she had wanted to do that, she could have been done with this trial months ago. But here she was, practically brimming with life in this dark, inanimate castle. No matter how hard she tried to appear dull and lifeless, she couldn't. She was so alive, and her currents ran deep. Even if the surface looked still, there was a constant motion to that woman. When he even walked near her, he could feel it. In the same way he could sense another's magic, he could sense her – had he not known better, he'd have mistaken her for a powerful sorceress in her own right.

These contemplations were constant for the Dark One. They were both too proud to change their dispositions, and whenever he asked about her choice, she calmly replied she had not made one and subsequently requested more time. She was always granted her request. Any request she made, she was granted. Perhaps not always timely, but he fulfilled all that she asked. There was only one thing he was not willing to give, and he was certain she would never ask for that again. _No matter_, he'd assure himself_, there'd always be a baker's wife or old hag in need of a child on the spur of the moment_.

Nevertheless, he checked his book weekly – just in case some helpless soul with something he could possibly want was in need. He always held his breath when he did. And then, light with relief, he would close the book after finding no indication of want or desire for a babe. He was not soft, but children… the painful memories of Bael, the way he had let his son down – scared his son away, and eventually forced him out. _You force everyone out. _Would this child be disappointed? Would it be unable to stare its sire in the face without shrinking from fear? He warred with himself on the issue, internalizing his struggles, determined to leave Belle with this choice.

"_No one decides my fate but me." _

It was during one of these routine checks that Rumpelstiltskin hears her scream. He does not hesitate to act in this situation, and quicker than a flash, the pages are abandoned and he is practically flying down the stairs as fast as his legs can carry him. He could follow the sound of her voice from anywhere in the castle – and when he got to the library, she was sitting at the table, books spread out in front of her, her hands splayed against her abdomen, the most concentrated he had ever seen her.

She was breathless and pale. Rumpelstiltskin stood in the doorway. "What is going on?" he asked, probably too sharply for her, but she had scared him half to death. Just because he was frustrated with her, and angry, betrayed, hurt, and every other emotion one could imagine a person would give someone else on any given occasion, did not mean he did not treat her well enough. They were adults and she was in a delicate condition. He had been around long enough to realize that.

In this moment though, Belle looked so… young. She was young, he corrected himself; it was not just her appearance. She had aged, of course, beyond her time, but it was graceful. While he was grotesque, she was stately. She would have been a stunningly informed and intelligent queen. Perhaps he did her people a disservice. Then again, it was her choice.

She shook her head, disbelief written across her features before she looked up at him. It was the first time in a long time she looked at him without anger, whatever emotion she was feeling completely outweighed her hatred toward him. "It moved," she breathed, the words coming out sounding more like a prayer than anything else, or the account of some miracle, whispered in awe and surprise.

What she said finally sinks in and Rumpelstiltksin's heart stopped beating so fast. He instantly felt a calming sensation, and he actually laughed. He could barely remember the last time he laughed, but he felt so much relief in that moment that it seemed to be the only thing to do. "They do that," he said in the most neutral voice he could, though his amusement, he was sure slipped into it. She was perceptive.

There was no argument. Belle looked at him, still astounded, and stood up. She was so different, he felt like even if he did touch her, he wouldn't recognize her. His fingers tingled at the thought, and he cleared his throat. Those thoughts wouldn't do. "I was… I was sitting here," she started to explain, her hands still planted firmly against the pale yellow fabric of her dress, "and I was reading."

She looked at him, her eyes wide – almost crazed, "and all of a sudden – it was so sharp… I was startled," she was flushed, and her hair that he imagined had been neatly arranged that morning was wispy and fluttering around her face. He continued to silently stand, watching the way she looked down, disbelieving, and then back up at him, searching his face. "And I screamed," she breathed, "I screamed." It was as though she did not believe herself when she spoke, repeating what happened twice, all doe eyes and groping hands. He pushes any thoughts of his own groping hands from his mind.

Rumpelstiltskin walked closer, slowly though, to not frighten her, and glanced at what was on the table. It was every anatomy book and crude medical text the library contained. It was not a wide selection, and from what he knew of what he had, not particularly… soft. Not suited for the eyes of an expectant mother, at least.

"As long as everything is alright then," he commented lamely, not wanting to intrude for too long, lest she lash out. He found it was so much easier to avoid her, to not have to face how she looked at him – like he was the source of all the misery in the world. She was wrong there, as much as he could be held accountable for, if she had just… stayed her distance… She crafted the world of her own misery.

Belle nodded for a moment, though it looked like she wanted to say something. He recognized that expression, her brows furrowed and her mouth open just a little… words begging to be spoken sitting on the other side, just waiting for the push. She seems to be trying to repress it, but then, a flash in her eyes and he can tell what she's thinking, almost like she's saying it out loud: _do the brave thing. _He is astounded by her, and she starts to speak. "All of these books," she motioned to them with a dismissive hand, "none of them… describe it."

That is unlike her. She is never vague. Her tongue is barbed, and she gets to the point. Rumpelstiltskin clears his throat. "Describe what?" he asks the question with no endearments. She would shy away when he used the words of the past. Dearie worked so well for her, but he wouldn't use it anymore.

He sees, in her eyes, there is actual fear, bubbling just below the surface. She clears her throat, her cheeks blooming into a fresh blush. It's a look that sends him into the past, imagining her spinning in circles, demanding stories and dances, shying from his words, only to come back at him stronger. He coughs into his hand, wrestling any of his feelings back to the deep parts of his brain that were not to be accessed. She rolls her shoulders, "Birth," she finally says, seemingly having shaken all of the shame of it away. "That's what I was looking for," she admitted, "and there's nothing."

It did not occur to him that she probably knew nothing of that part of life. He always forgot how young she was, how many things she did not see. It did not even have to only do with her age, but she was a princess – a princess without a mother or sisters – she was surely never subjected to childbirth as it would have been improper.

He knows no more than she does, well, that's perhaps not true – but it is most assuredly not his forte. Even his texts probably only described physical changes, maybe even what little was known about development, but other than that – it was the trade of women, and Belle being the only woman here, it was not surprising that they were both hopeless. "I… will see what I can do," he offers just as much as he can promise – and all he can promise is to try.

He must have logged a deal with a midwife or two somewhere along the way. The way she looked so relieved when he said he would try to find something was enough to convince him of this necessity. "Thank you," she said, somewhat begrudgingly, and Rumpelstiltskin nodded to her, not wanting to embarrass her, but also acknowledge it took a lot for her to say that – he knew. She did not thank him for anything, and he could not think of a single reason she might have to.

He was about to step out of the room when she practically jumped out of her skin, making a face he did not recognize. She explained, quickly, "It happened again." And he knew what she was talking about. For all of his lifetimes, this was only the second pregnancy he bore witness to, and the first, he had missed much of it. For all intents and purposes, this experience was new to him as well, and he was so distant for it.

A new resolve came upon him and he walked forward with purpose, not intending on taking no for an answer and stood in front of her, edging her hands out of the way so he could have the experience as well. The heat of her was outstanding, and his hands burned with the sensation of touching her, even through fabric. He could almost feel her soft skin, but, more than that, he moved his hands slowly, purposefully, and she did not protest.

Despite their resentment, they both suffered keenly from the lack of physical contact they upheld in the past two months. It was like having access to a veritable waterfall of clean drinking water, and then being transplanted to the desert. She put her hands on top of his – so white and perfect against his green-gold skin, but she did not flinch. She just took charge and moved his hands where they should be, his fingers splayed against the expanse of her growing mid-section.

His hands were so big compared to her, even as she was growing his hands were large – and his claws – it felt almost… sacrilegious that they would stand out so starkly against the pale yellow softness… Ss she steadied his hand, it seemed like they were both waiting with baited breath. It was quiet, the sounds of the library creaking around them creating the only accompaniment to the silent waiting. The air between them is thick with tension, and though they cannot stand one another, they are each other's only company.

And then it happens. In a moment, he feels the quickening under his hands and he sucks in a breath at the same time she does. They make a sort of awkward eye contact, and both laugh uneasily.

He feels so soft… so… unable to do anything against her and that sparks the desire to immediately step away. He takes his hands away from her, profane and grotesque against something so lovely, and he nodded. "Have you made your choice yet?" he asks, reverting to what is comfortable – making a deal is comfortable business, particularly when he already knows the answer.

Something flashes across her features, an expression acutely like hurt, and Rumpelstiltskin sighs. She should be used to being hurt by him by now. Despite her cleverness and nobility, she could be woefully simple, particularly in matters of the heart – of which, she made it very clear, he did not have. "I need more time," she breathed, ice dripping from every word. With her hands still reverently placed on her stomach, she walks past him – head held high, like always, and did not look back.

_Perhaps she was not the only one who was hopeless_, he thought bitterly, watching her walk away, like he always did.


	5. Women's Business

**A/N: **A little faster update than usual, but in an effort to boost my self-esteem (I didn't get into a post-graduate program I applied for, and invested a lot into), I am putting this up. Thanks to everyone who reads and keeps up with the story, I really appreciate your feedback, and it really makes me feel like I'm doing something appreciated. I hope this section lives up to the rest, and please R&R, if you are so inclined. Naturally, do not own (just for reminders).

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><p>Life would have been so much easier if Rumpelstiltskin were a liar. But, he was not, and Belle could have despised him for it. But, she didn't. She appreciated his honesty, but it still hurt. It hurt to know that even if they couldn't look at one another, he would do whatever he said, even if it took time.<p>

She had begun to doubt it, of course, as day after day she cataloged in her journal her fears and anxieties. As her stomach was swelling, as she was feeling more and more movement. She tried to express her feelings, and her diary was a good outlet, but it did not write back, and certainly did not offer any comfort outside of giving her a place to vent her feelings.

It was an afternoon full of hurried writing when there was a knock on the door. She looked up, surprised. Rumpelstiltskin had made it very clear he was going to be gone for a week, at least. Horror filled her chest, not really sure who it could be. Her hand stilled and she could hear her heart beating between her ears, the rush of blood clouding her senses.

"Belle?" his voice broke the current of her blood through her ears and she could almost feel the anxiety leaving her. Her hands were still shaking though, and she did not steady herself as easily as she used to. Whatever was going on in her body, she could not decipher, but it made her anxious and shaky, it also made her resolute and steadfast. Then there were the time she was so weepy she could not get out of bed, or light and giddy – worse than that, were the times she looked at him and felt so drawn she had to actually remove herself from the room.

Now though, she was walking toward his voice, and she unlatched the lock on the door. She took several deep breaths before she pushed the door open, peeking out, just in case it was a trap. No trap, as far as she could tell. He was standing there, dressed like always – leather pants (damn them, she thought with a slight redness to her cheeks) and his waistcoat, with silk. Her eyes, after finishing wandering over him, caught sight of something she did not expect.

There was a hunched woman with a crooked nose with him. Her thin hair was tied up in a messy bun, though grey wisps poked out every which way. One of her eyes was closed a little more than the other, and her clothes were shabby – black. She was probably a widow, and she clutched a crooked staff. Her cracked lips curled into a smile though, and she shook her head. "This is what you've brought me for?" the crone cackled, "Why – she's nothing but a child herself, Rumpelstiltskin!" she spoke without softness toward him, or reverence. Belle felt herself immediately trusting her, just for that – she reined it in though, not wanting to be too quick to trust. "You are a devil," she looked at him through her wider eye – Belle noticing that the smaller was slightly discolored.

Rumpelstiltskin could only smirk in response – he did not need to say anything to the old hag. To Belle, however, he offered an explanation. "This is Yaga," he introduced the hag and she bowed her head, "An… associate of mine…" he was delicate about his wording, that could only mean she was in the business of deal making too. Belle regarded him warily, _what did he trade for this? _"She can answer your questions," he added, licking his bottom lip.

There was something very… desperate in his look, as though he had done everything he could and wanted to please her. She feels a pang in her chest, and she nods at him, opening the door wider, and giving a small smile to Yaga. "It is a pleasure to meet you," she is polite, and somewhat embarrassed as she steps out of the room, revealing the fact that she was very much expecting to another person.

She was suddenly self-conscious. It had not been so bad when no one else knew. "Come, come," she laughed – hobbling forward, her staff clicking on the polished stone floors. "Let us speak somewhere more comfortable," she eyes Belle, "You may pick the location," and then eyes Rumpelstiltskin, "and you may prepare the tea."

He looks incredulous for a moment, and Belle brings her hand to her face just to hide the smile. This ancient woman was very aware she is doing him a favor, and was not going to waste the opportunity. Rumpelstiltskin merely grumbled and was gone in a flash. Yaga flashed a toothless grin to the young woman. "Respects his elders, he does," she cackled again, and Belle wondered just how ancient was this woman – and really, what did Rumpelstiltskin trade to her for this.

Whatever it was, it was most assuredly worth it. They sat in the library all afternoon. Yaga was a clever woman, and easy to talk to. Belle found it refreshing she was not being judged, and her candor was appreciated. Some of the things she had to say petrified the young woman, but it also put her at ease, to know someone was honest with her. Belle could see it in the crone's face; she had no reason to lie to her, and certainly did not sugarcoat what had to be said.

However, that was not Belle's favorite part of the afternoon. Watching Rumpelstiltskin walk in, carrying the tray with him, like some kind of valet – that made her smile without remorse. It was right that he serve them, and the crone found her own humor in it, dismissing him only after he prepared both cups – the chipped one noticeably missing from the tray, probably because it aggravated her so much, and then he was gone again. "Women's business," Yaga had smiled cryptically, "is perhaps the only business he is unacquainted with."

It escaped Belle what Yaga could have meant by that, and the ancient woman changed the subject quickly, speaking of so many things Belle's head spun. There was talk of pain, and walking, and screaming – horrible screaming, to which the crone laughed, promising that with the right help, it would not be quite so bad. When Belle inquired as to what help she would be getting, well, Yaga had a delightful laugh: "Mine, of course!" she had assured – and for the first time in six months, Belle felt a bout of relative calm.

When the sun started to descend from its place high in the sky, Yaga got up from the chair – Belle could practically hear her joints cracking and he dust falling from the unused muscles, her arms pushing herself up with her cane. "I have one more question," Belle looked at the old woman, her brows furrowed. "What is the price?"

Yaga smiled cryptically, "Price of what, lovely?" Belle could see she knew what she meant, but she was being cagey. Nothing came easily, did it?

"This," she motioned between them, "and your help, when the time comes. What is the price?" Yaga regards her for a moment, standing a little taller, and her good eye focusing on Belle, as if summing her up. Belle also stood taller in response, she did not fold – and even to someone who helped her so much, she would not bend.

"Well, lovely, you would do better to ask the person paying," she tittered – and sounded so much like him. If Belle did not know better, she might have assumed this woman was his mother, the way she laughed and talked in circles, and acted as though she owned the world. She was certainly older than him, but he had never spoken of any teacher or anything of the sort. Perhaps it was just a coincidence… an actual acquaintance from some number of deals. Belle's curiosity was always getting the best of her.

"Of course," Belle answers, unsatisfied with that answer, though she supposes out of all of the answers she has gotten today, having only one to disappoint her was probably the best anyone could do for her. And it was not as though she could not find out, it would just be… uncomfortable.

Yaga read her face like a book and she laughed as she hobbled toward her. She reached out her gnarled hands, knuckles twisted and nails long and dark – like his. Belle expected her to put her hand atop of hers, but instead she rested it on the gradual swell of her ever expanding middle. Belle felt warm, and tingly, and she looked down at Yaga, whose eyes were closed and concentrated etched on every crease of her aged and wrinkled face, the woman nodded, slowly and knowingly.

Belle drew in a deep breath, not sure what was going on and gazed at the crone with curiosity and a bit of fear. "What is it?" she asked, her anxiety laced in every word, a sudden pressure behind her eyes, fearing the worst.

"No need to be so scared, lovely," Yaga crooned, her eyes still shut. She shifted her hand from one side to the other, the tingling sensation, probably magic following along the trail. "Very strong," she assured her, leaning closer, as though she was hearing something. Belle tried to lean her head down too – to see if she could hear anything, but she heard nothing. "You will be surprised," she said cryptically as she leaned away and retracted her hand.

Belle raised her eyebrows and Yaga just smiled steadily. The woman was undoubtedly helpful, but almost as infuriating as Rumpelstiltskin with her cryptic replies and devious smiles. "Thank you," Belle finally says – and the woman nods.

"I will be back when you need me, lovely," she grins, missing half her teeth and all of a sudden, in a puff of purple-pink smoke, is gone. Belle sneezed at the smell and blinked – she suspected the woman had powers, probably a very skilled witch, particularly if she worked with Rumpelstiltskin on any number of things. The thought of him though made Belle's curiosity intensify. _What was the price here?_

It was already evening and she was feeling famished, so she went to the kitchen to procure anything all to eat. It was still early autumn, but she was sure the apple selection must have been good. She did not move quite so quickly as she used to, but at least with the increased blood flow (what she had read, and confirmed by Yaga) she was not as cold as she usually was around this time – imagine that, she thought with a bit of a bitter laugh, she had been her long enough to have comparative seasons…

When she was in the kitchen, she followed the motions. She didn't prepare anything quite so elaborate, but she did enough to feed herself, and him, and prepare tea. To be noted, as small thanks, she included some biscuits with blackberry preserves on the tray: he liked blackberries best.

She ate with him this evening, though on opposite ends of the room. She would not sit at the same table as him – it would be simultaneously too comfortable and exceptionally uncomfortable at the same time. She did not relish in torturing herself, even if that was the whole of her existence at this point.

There were very few moments during the meal either of them turned their eyes upward, and Belle hated the grating sound of cutlery on porcelain, or the rhythmic chewing that sounds louder than any woodsman hacking down a tree. And then there are the gnawing questions – the ones that play in her mind whenever she mulls a piece of advice or warning speech from Yaga over in her head: _what did it cost?_

When the food was eaten and the tea was drunk, Belle collected everything to put on the tray. She bustled about efficiently, though her stomach did tend to get in the way – she had not yet fully adjusted to his kind of lifestyle, and she paused, looking at him at the head of the table. He sat stark still, an expression like worry on his face.

Instinct told her she hoped he was not thinking about her, but instinct gave way to anger and she resented him thinking about her. She resented every extra moment he spent on her, like summoning an old crone midwife to sate her fears, that was time and energy for her – things that he did despite his assertion that she did not mean anything to him – people were not supposed to help those they did not care about!

"I suppose," She finally said, the frustration of her voice bubbling out in her voice, "her help costs you a pretty price. How shall I pay you back for it?" There has to be an implication in this deal for her – if it was to benefit her, there was always a price to pay. He was the first one to make sure no one forgot that.

He raised his eyebrows at her, still sitting in silence. His fingers were steeped in front of him, and he waved his hand, dismissing her. Oh, it made her blood boil, how she hated it. The little one shifted – she could feel it – he or she did not like it either. _Good, one thing she might have in common with him or her…_ wasn't that the question of the day though? She flustered herself without meaning to, and he spoke deliberately, "The payment is… in flux… at the moment."

This damned cryptic nonsense made her head spin and she huffed with displeasure. "What is that supposed to mean?" she whined and hissed at the same time – her emotions were all the more intensified by her current state and she was not having a good time of it. Being exhausted and uncomfortable most of the time also did not do wonders for her.

He did not answer – at least she did not think so – and instead leaned further back in the chair. "Have you made your choice yet?" he asked simply. Belle was so frustrated from all of this that she clatters the last of the plates onto the tray and lifts it with a squeak of anger, stomping out of the main hall, letting the door slam behind her. She assumed he knew what that answer meant.


	6. Lioness

**A/N:** So last night, at about 1:30 AM, I finished writing Broken Heart's! So, it's just about time for updates to happen, and let me tell you - I surprised myself! Naturally, the actual ending is a closely guarded secret ;) but, I'm so excited that it's completed - with eleven sections, including the epilogue, and I hope that everyone enjoys reading it as much as I have writing it! I'm going on a Spring Break trip, so there might be a tiny bit of a wait for the end of the story... BUT I think it's worth it! I don't own OUaT, though if I did, I'd be a happy camper. Enjoy, R&R!

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><p>Deals were curious things. Rumpelstiltskin had ages of experience in making them; he had found his way around most of them without ever having to put anything he truly wanted on the line. He always negotiated his ways around people, impassively and impartially dealing things between them, most of the time without their knowledge. Honestly, where did childless couples think he got the babes from? But, everyone had something to lose, and something to give in return, and that was the way the world worked, he just facilitated it.<p>

In this circumstance, he really did not have much to deal with Yaga. Belle was a much more… personal… dealing than most he engaged in, precisely the reason he picked Yaga. The old woman, though she did not owe him much, had been the recipient of a rather handsome reward, once upon a time, and as such, they had cordial dealings, mostly in the way of ingredients for what – were they centuries now?

He rubbed his face – how quickly an empty couple of hundred years could fly by? It seemed these past months had been the slowest of his existence, perhaps excepting those that followed losing Bael…

The woman though, she struck a hard bargain, and Rumpelstiltskin negotiated to his best ability. He had struck the deal though – if what it meant was Belle got some relief from her constant worries. She pretended she was not suffering, but she'd be absolutely insane if she were not. Plus, the anxious way she looked to him for answers in the library, well, he had none to give.

Truth be told, though Rumpelstiltskin had learned the ways of weaving and spinning, a number of other activities that were gendered feminine, the idea of childbirth made him squirm in his seat. It was messy business, difficult and fraught with complications – it was nothing like making a deal, the ends didn't tie up neatly and there was devastation involved. For all of the beastly things he did, he did not enjoy the messy things.

It weighed heavily on him, but she looked lighter – despite her angry glowers at his avoidance of her questions. He had resolved to not influence her decision in this, even if he did not tell her so much, and however much he would have liked to tell her, it was her choice to make.

So, he lay still in his bed, claws clasped over his chest. The choice could not be easy, he reasoned, but that did not mean he was patient about it. Belle did not know how lucky she was in this.

She had never watched the flesh of her flesh take his first steps, nor did she know the laughter one could derive from a dinner splattered over a chubby face, and she certainly didn't know the surge of pride when your child said his first words…

He relived each of these experiences daily, thinking about the son he lost and the life he had once lived. It was ironic in hindsight; both choices caused him the same result: he lost his family. If he had stayed to fight, he would have surely died at the hands of the ogres. He escaped and came back, only to doom himself in another way. Even before he inherited the dagger, it seemed he was cursed.

Being cursed was a comfort though, and it explained every torment this life gave him. It certainly explained that even when he had something like this in front of him, the mere sight of her made him want to break something. There was a notorious shortage of vases in the castle now.

It was mostly related to the fact that whenever she saw him, she tensed up. She was uncomfortable in his presence, and her face hardened. She had so much hatred toward him, and he could not blame her. That was what drove the metaphorical dagger into his heart, to know he actually deserved everything she was feeling.

So, it surprised him when he thought he heard the door open. It was even more surprising when he opened his eyes from his musings and realized the door to his room was actually open.

She was bathed in the light from a candle she was carrying. Rumpelstiltskin pushed himself up from under the blankets and rubbed his face – he had not been sleeping, but he felt the impulse to check, just in case he would be waking up in the next moment extremely perplexed with his door still closed. But no, he was not asleep, and she was standing there. "Belle?" he asked with his voice low and heavy.

Belle's slippers padded softly against the floor as she approached the side of the bed that remained empty for almost four months. As she got closer he could see the wetness under her eyes and the haggard expression she wore on her face. "I just…" she practically whimpered, causing him extra alarm, and set the candle down on the nightstand, "I had a nightmare," she looked down, "about the baby."

The way the word created a tension between them – he didn't think she had actually ever referred to the child as a baby. It was a charged word, to be sure and his mouth, behind jagged teeth went dry as he swallowed. "Did it have claws and green skin, by chance?" he asked dryly.

In the light of the candle, Belle's face looked stricken. The anger on her face betrayed her; she had thought she would get some kind of sympathetic response. Why on Earth, he could not know. She had abandoned this post for four months and now expected to be comforted in this space for something as silly as a dream?

"I don't know why I expect anything from you," her voice was full of anger, but also resignation. He was not sure whether she was actually directing the comment at him, or herself. Either was perfectly viable.

Rumpelstiltskin sat up fully and rolled his eyes at her. "You do have an uncanny ability to expect completely outrageous things from those around you," he sent a barb her way, trying to provoke her – to make her realize how stupid she had been for coming here and seeking comfort from a monster. _What else could she possibly expect?_

Belle placed (more like slammed) the candle holder on the nightstand and ran her hands through her tousled sable hair. She was practically growling, outlined by the embers burning dim in the fireplace. It was lost like she was on fire, and he swung his legs around to sit facing her.

"You are… You are…" she couldn't finish the sentence, instead she just dropped her shoulders and her head went back, her hands grasping at the roots of her chestnut hair. "I – it was dead, Rumpelstiltskin! It came out dead!" her voice was hoarse, and it sounded as though she had actually been crying. He would recognize that sound, as it tore him up a thousand ways. She paced a little and faced the bed – faced him – "It was dead," she choked.

She was really upset about this, clearly. As much as he desired nothing but getting up and enveloping her in an embrace, he stopped himself from moving. "Unless you've developed a propensity toward clairvoyance," he clicked his tongue against the top of his palette, "it was _just_ a dream."

He folded his hands in his lap and waited. She looked at him with something of a confused, but also disgusted look. The way, he reasoned, she should always look at him. After everything he had done to her, how she could do anything else was beyond the realm of his understanding. Her stance was so rigid, but the firelight did nothing but make her soft. What an interesting juxtaposition.

"This," she removed her hands from her hair and grasped onto her stomach, "this is growing inside of _me_," she stressed, "and it – it was _dead_. And you sit here and you," she motioned to him violently, one hand on her head again, the other outstretched toward him, hanging in the air as if looking for something to hold onto. "You just sit there, and… you don't even _care_!"

It was the final straw, so to speak, and Rumpelstiltskin stood from the edge of the bed. He knew he was not a particularly tall creature, but standing next to her with his shoulders tense and up, he felt like he towered over Belle. "What would you like me to _do_ about it?" his voice was on edge, and he stood closer than he needed, just making sure that she could see the lines around his sneer and the anger in his eyes perfectly.

There was no surprise in the fact that she did not back down. She stood up to him, tilting her head up and meeting his gaze. "I don't know," she growled back, her eyebrows pulled in tight and her lips pursed at him.

They stood at a stand-off for moments which felt like eternities. Neither moved, their muscles tense, and eyes locked on one another. It was that struggle for power coming up again – they had spent so much time avoiding one another, the tug-of-war had seemed to cease, but now it was in full force.

She looked fierce. Her chestnut hair was tousled and wild, framing her regal face. He wasn't surprised her family's noble crest featured the lion. It was always so strange, for the lion to the portrait of nobility, when the lioness was the one who did the work. And Belle was certainly a lioness right now.

He breathed in through his nose, arm muscles pulled tight. He was the first to crack. He grabbed her by the arms; with a firm grasp, he pulled her against him. "If I can't do anything," he hissed, "why did you come up here?" She was flush against him, and he could smell her and feel her, and his heart was pounding. He hated feeling incapacitated, which was why he wasthe Dark One; he'd never feel helpless again. And she ruined all of that.

Belle was stock-still, and she bit on her bottom lip. When she released it from between her teeth, it was red and puffy. Her breathing was heavy and he could feel every single breath she took. She grasped onto is sides, her nails digging at him, even through the cotton sleep shirt. She was searching for something; he could see it in her eyes, though he doubted she knew any more than he did what he could do.

And that was his undoing. She was impossible, with her blazing blue eyes and wild hair, just standing there, pressed against him and clinging. He leaned down and nuzzled her hair away from her neck and put his mouth on a spot he had memorized, the curve between her neck and shoulder – the one that made her gasp, and her nails dig deeper into his sides.

She was lucky he was holding her up because her knees went weak and he was able to support her by her arms alone, continuing his assertive treatment of neck – savoring the taste he missed so much, her perfumed, spicy skin and the sound of her as he dragged his mouth over her throat – holding her in place. She shifted her grip to his arms as he bit down on her flesh, her breath ragged.

It isn't very hard to work her over, he thought as he started to get lost in her helpless whimpers. But, she started to pull and push, and Rumpelstiltskin was forced to reconsider what he was doing and pull away. There are hints of blue and purple already lining her collars and thin, porcelain neck. She breathed heavily and searched his face. "What?" he managed to get out, coarse and heavy. She drove him crazy sometimes.

Her red lips were parted and she looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn't. Her throat bobbed, and he could see the curve of her jaw, his eyes focused on it like a hawk might watch a mouse. It was Belle's choice though, despite how much he wanted her – and she just had to have labored breaths – just to torture him, he imagined.

And then she let go of his arms and grabbed his collar, pulling him into whatever magic she was able to weave simply by standing in front of him. It was, of course, desperation to both of them, and as they were arms and elbows about one another, Rumpelstiltskin soaked up everything he could – tasting the desire, but also depression keen on her skin.

Words died as they moved together. Verbalized feelings did not suit them, and they got lost, eyes closed and hands moving. It did not take long for him to memorize her body again, it was not so different, and the comedy of errors considering her new… shape… was not enough to deter the passions of a pair who had no one else for company, comfort, or blame.

When they had ignored their hatred, or perhaps confused it for something else, or just acted out the only physical expression they could – Rumpelstiltskin laid on his back, and Belle lay on her side, facing away from him. He saw the curve of her back, so soft and lit by the fire. The air between them was heavy with regret.

It didn't fix things. Momentary glimpses into something better served to torture him even more, especially when she used to be so affectionate, and now they were just… vessels for one another. But, she came here in the middle of the night, frantic and wild, looking for him to do something for her. He could bring her to the edge, but comfort was not something he could give.

She seemed to know that as she stared – he could tell she wasn't asleep – out at the fire. "I shouldn't have come here," she finally said, voice laden with disappointment.

"You shouldn't have," he agreed, voice still husky and low – much lower than usual. She brings that out in him, the human quality he pushed down into his core. She was maddening.

Turning on her back, she leaned up on her elbows, looking at him. The way she looked at him – always searching, like she could see straight through him – and yet, she didn't know anything at all. Wordlessly, she pushed herself up and gathered her nightgown, tugging it on. She had never done that before.

She left the candle behind and walked out of the room, the door only clicked shut this time. And he was left alone, in the hazy afterglow of regret and desperation at its finest.


	7. The Nightmare

**A/N: **Last chapter I'm going to be posting before vacation! Thanks to everyone for reviewing and enjoying the story! I'm very excited to hear from everyone and the response has been so fantastic! It really makes me so excited and I hope everyone continues to enjoy!

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><p>She felt like she grew inches daily.<p>

Daily tasks became near impossible, as most of her felt swollen or sore whenever she moved. Not to mention her distended mid-section got in the way of everything. She could almost balance the tray on it – almost. If she were a more graceful mover, maybe… Besides, she had other problems. She couldn't breathe in certain positions, and the child was constantly wearing on her body. It was a good thing she had given up cleaning ages ago; she couldn't have done it now, certainly not.

As much as she had adapted when she was in tip-top shape, she had never been very good at it. She was a princess, not a scullery maid, and didn't understand the intricacies of having to launder clothes or scrub appropriately. It had always seemed he didn't need her there because of his lack of cleaning skills – he could do that easily, even if magic came with a price, it probably meant a broken vase or some other minor inconvenience for cleaning… And, to be perfectly honest, they could not be any worse than what Belle had done to a number of his things.

Most of her days were spent reading and writing now. After taking refuge in him that one time, she instantly knew it was the worst possible decision she could make. Sometimes though, her emotions got the best of her, like Yaga had said they would – and she experienced so much in short periods of times.

And when she had that dream… It felt so real. And it happened more than once.

_She was sweating. Her whole body was shaking and she screamed – only herself and Yaga in a dark room. She was forced to walk, sweat dripping from her forehead and all down her back – walking endlessly back and forth. "Keep going, lovely," Yaga's crackling voice urged, the old woman much stronger than Belle gave her credit for, supporting her weight as her knees shook and legs quaked with each step. _

Every time, she woke up in a cold sweat, anxiously feeling her stomach to ensure that it was not a reality – that the worst fear she had could come true. The struggle to decide whether or not she wanted the child was enough, but to imagine… she didn't want any harm to come of him or her. He or she was part of her, and after so long – so long just her and the child… she couldn't stand it.

_The pain was unbearable, and it made her gnash her teeth and curse, worse than she had ever cured before. It was so unfair, so painful – she didn't know why she had to suffer so terribly for this. And she dropped to one knee as a cramp hit her abdomen like a truck, "Up, up," she was urged by Yaga, and Belle did the brave thing and got up. _

She would walk around her room in the dark, sometimes crying, sometimes silent. She'd brush her hair or light a candle and write in her diary, squinting so hard her head would start to hurt just to write something down to get her mind off of what had just happened. It was too much to go to him – though sometimes she burned for it – she desired it more than anything.

Feeling close to him was a comfort, if an empty one. And feeling some heat near her, reminding her she was not alone – it was always a mistake, but during the moment, it felt so good. She shivered when she thought of it, missing his lean, muscular frame pressed against her and the way he didn't treat her like porcelain… But it wasn't right. She couldn't, and being so… uncomfortable – she preferred to wait out her anxieties in the evening alone.

_When she was allowed to sit, Belle felt as though she might break in half. Cramps came so quickly and she desired nothing but to be numb. Yaga hit her leg when she stopped breathing, urging the girl on – and Belle, even drenched in sweat, feeling so very exposed and vulnerable, continued – still screaming and cursing, particularly one individual. _

Then, she'd crawl back into bed. She curled up and tried to comfort herself, clutching a pillow to her chest, feeling uncomfortable and restless, but she'd sleep – pulled into it merely by being physically exhausted.

_It didn't take long after that. Belle screeched and pushed and pressure – so much pressure. She was crying and yelling, and Yaga was urging the girl along, doing everything her lifetimes of experience offered her. But Belle could only see stars, painful bright stars that made her stomach flip and clench, and her mind swim. _

When she saw him, she turned her face away. She had never felt ashamed by their interactions, not when she had nothing to lose. But here, she was facing the hardest choice she could ever make – deciding whether or not this child could exist in her life as more than an abstract idea, she knew nothing of children and child-rearing, no matter how much she read – it always seemed so foreign…

But, she couldn't stay away. She ate meals near him, sat in the main hall again, especially while he spun. They were silent partners, danced around having any meaningful interactions, and even avoided fighting. They snapped, of course, and kept one another an arm's length away, but they couldn't ignore one another. Besides, Belle knew it would be soon – and she thought he did too, because suddenly, he was much easier to find.

_When the pressure was gone and Belle was exhausted, collapsed on the cushioning on the floor. She had never done something so difficult and she breathed heavily, her eyes staring at the ceiling. "Yaga?" she breathed, trying to push herself up on her elbows, "Yaga?" her voice was a little more desperate – the old crone was not answering, and she had walked away as soon as the pressure was gone, toddling quickly. Belle felt her face wet – was she already crying? _

He trailed behind her, and helped her with things she couldn't do – lifting, and bending. One morning, while she was getting ready to start the day, moving slower than usual, she found an envelope pinned to the inside of her door. She hated that, he probably sneaked in while she was sleeping and then put it there for the world – her – to see.

She plucked it off the wall, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous seal. He didn't have to do that, she assumed he knew that, and pealed the wax circle with a script R in the middle off of the paper. On the inside was just a brief note: an order. She was to stay in bed, apparently. When she was about to crumple the letter, she saw a little more writing on the bottom, declaring she would attempt to crumple it up and they were not his instructions, but Yaga's and she was expected to follow them.

Belle did not like that; she didn't like being ordered around. But, something about the letter told her she didn't have a choice, and when she turned around – she was surprised there was a pile of books by her bedside that she did not take there, and hadn't noticed. Sitting on top of the books was her knitting – so many creamy squares and the yarn clinging to the wooden needles. She knew how she would spend her days.

"_I'm sorry," Yaga tried to console her, but she shook with sobs. She demanded to see him – her son. Nothing Yaga said could dissuade her from her desire, and the old woman acquiesced. The blanket she had labored over wrapped around the bundle. The lifeless bundle in her arms – and he was beautiful… and still… and silent… _That was the part she always woke up at.

While she knitted, he brought her food and tea; he asked her what made her comfortable. Though he was never fawning, he certainly was diligent. Belle may have made a request or two too many, but it was all deserved.

Besides, she was working very diligently. She wanted the blanket to be ready, and as she got closer and closer to the birth, she just… could tell. It was strange, that she could know something like that without knowing it. But, after lying in bed for a couple of days, being waited on hand and foot, she just felt like… it would be soon.

Not to mention how much the baby was moving, and when she did get up for this brief bits of respite, which he somehow always managed to find her at and insist on helping her – _per Yaga's instructions, of course_… She felt different, like her body had changed again, got lower, and she was suddenly feeling ridiculous amounts of pressure on her pelvis.

One day, while sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the main hall, feeling heavy and exhausted, one of her shawls wrapped tight around her, and her feet up on one of the many foot stools and a book spread open in front of her, she looked over at the master of the house, spinning like usual. "In my dream," she mused out loud, "the baby is always a boy."

She was looking for his reaction. But his hands didn't even stop moving. He continued to stare at the spun gold in his hands. "Divining again?" His tone was lilting and high – it was that fake voice, the voice he used with his victims. He didn't want her to talk to him, so he used that to keep her away. She huffed; it'd take more than that to deter her.

"It's just an observation," she returned with a bit of a growl in her voice – just threatening him to say something ruthless.

He volleyed the conversation back to her almost immediately. "Any other observations to share?" His tongue is barbed today. He must know it is to happen soon too. He no longer asks about her choice, because she never has an answer, but they both know – they have to – that the choice is going to come sooner rather than later.

Belle let out a deep breath from her nose, "It won't be long now," she admitted. She closed her book, placing it high on the curve of her fool moon stomach and folded her hands toward the bottom, where the little one's feet usually kicked. She was, surprisingly comfortable for the time being, and looked over at him, blue eyes half-lidded and tired, feeling little movements she had gotten so used to pressing out – as eager to escape his or her prison as Belle was to have him or her out.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes at her. She pouted at him, not pleased with his behavior and he smirked. "I'm very aware." He tried to be neutral, but he failed, miserably, his smirk seeped into the tone of his voice. "Yaga has been quite… unrelenting in her correspondence."

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows, a bit of surprise etched on her features. It shouldn't have surprised her, she was sure the two of them had their methods of communication that would go much faster than any messenger could deliver. "What has she been writing about?" Belle asked, trying to seem as casual as possible, though she had never forgotten the unanswered question of payment.

"You," he answered easily, "and a number of other things. Honestly, you have been nothing but trouble when it comes to her," he said breezily, waving his hand while he attended to spooling the last of the spun gold, in preparation for creating another spool. "I should have picked a less… meddlesome… midwife."

Belle sneered and removed her feet from the footstool, sliding them back into the plush leather slippers before she pushed herself from the chair, wobbling precariously as she adjusted to being upright. She cursed this state, and hoped she would soon be rid of it. But, not too soon… she still… well, she liked to pretend she didn't know what she wanted to choose. It was just so hard to admit it – so hard to be that vulnerable to him, and so connected. She supposed though, after nine months of carrying his child, and every other infuriating thing they put one another through, they were very much connected. "Keep her happy," Belle ordered as she started toward the doors.

"I wouldn't dream of doing anything else," he laughed, lowering his chin to look at her, something strange and unrecognizable in his cloudy, dark eyes. "A friendly reminder," he added shrilly from his seat, "You best make your choice – as you said: it won't be long now."


	8. Wait

**A/N: **HELLO EVERYONE! It's been quite a week, I had a lot of fun on vacation, but I've missed posting and writing -so it's lovely to be back (and out of the sun without a hangover, finally! Hah!). I really loved coming back to all of the favorites and follows, it is really neat to see people still interested in what I'm writing, so yay! Thanks so much, I obviously don't own OUaT, and please R&R! I really love hearing from you guys! Lots of love and thank you! Also, as an extra bonus this is a loooooooooong chapter, so please, enjoy!

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><p>And it wasn't long. Barely a week passed until it began. He worried that perhaps she was prophetic.<p>

The first time she cried out was in the middle of the night. He thought it appropriate that this was a child who found him or her self so drawn to making his or her presence known at night. _Bael had_ – the thought cut through his chest like a knife and he shook his head, wiry curls in disarray as he walked down the stairs, still clad in his night clothes: a pair of plain fabric pants and matching tunic.

Really, this was not even his business - the screaming and all of the pain was not something he found himself interested in. Yaga's letters held enough information for the Master of the house to understand that he did not want part in it, but he was here, and he had to attend to the lady, as she was in no condition to care for herself, and descended the steps toward her room on the first floor.

He didn't bother to knock when he got to her door and strode in easily, waving his hand so it opened; regardless of if she locked it – he doubted she did, at least she had never done so before. She was sitting up in her head, legs propped at an angle and eyes wide. Her face was white as a sheet, and her mouth made that perfect little 'o' shape, like she did when she was surprised.

She instantly looks embarrassed and tries to cover her bed, which in her surprise; she must have thrown the covers off. He only quirked his eyebrows at the damp sheets, Belle looking as mortified as she did, he was sure it would not go well. Instead, he turned his head away, coughing into his hand. "Do you want tea?" was the first thing he can think of, looking at her like that and not having a shred of a clue what to do – outside of, of course, informing Yaga when her pains are fairly consistent. She had told him, and probably Belle as well, but as a reminder to him, that the beginning of the process could take a considerable amount of time.

"Tea?" she said breathlessly, she looked at him like he was mental and for a moment, he realized how foolish the question probably was. "Why, pray tell, would I want tea right now?" she asked, the volume of her voice dramatically increasing as she spoke – she was scared, she rarely lost her poise and dignity over a silly request when she wasn't.

He decided, however, he was going to… go with it. Yes, he would pretend it was perfectly normal. "To calm your nerves, Dearie," the endearment slips through his lips before he has time to rein it back in, and he moves on – one only called attention to mistakes by making them a big deal, "you might have quite a wait."

With a snap of his long fingers, the fire went from soft embers to a roar; there was the kettle and all the necessities for making tea. Ah, sometimes a curse could be such a convenience he thought as he walked to the fireplace, crouching in front of the warm glow. It was the cusp of winter and it should have been warmer in here anyhow. She was probably not just pale from the pain of whatever she had just experienced.

He put the kettle over the flames and glanced up at her. She looked a little more relaxed, at the least, and she licked her lips, thoughtful and hesitant. "When do we call for Yaga?" she asked, obviously having forgotten the woman's coaching. Belle was very lucky Rumpelstiltskin was a man of details.

He had summoned a type of tea designed specifically for calming, and as the water heated he put he mix in the tea ball, ready to steep it as soon as it was ready. "Not until we can be sure it's not a false alarm," he chuckled, "Yaga would be incorrigible if she were to be woken up in the middle of the night for a few misleading pains."

Belle huffed and leaned against the sea of pillows she had against the backboard of the four-poster bed. While his room was simple, a middling merchant's living, at best; she lived like the queen she was supposed to become. He mused that she was something of a queen, a dark one, but one nonetheless.

They passed the time in half-silence. Belle took her tea in bed, and Rumpelstiltskin took his in her chair by the fire. At the foot of her bed was the creamy white blanket of those knitted squares, complete and waiting. He meant to ask her about her choice, but he knew. The way she hummed to herself, and knitted so diligently – the books she read – she betrayed herself with every loving stroke and embrace of her stomach.

Yaga would be demanding, should this be her course of action. Thankfully, Rumpelstiltskin knew of a particular young lady who would be in need of a method for getting to a ball that would… fulfill the terms of his agreement. After all, deals could always be struck, and as he had vehemently told Yaga, he would do as Belle desired, nothing else.

When she would clench in pain, he always tried to breathe a little slower and deeper to avoid reacting. He did not want to anger her. It surprised him when she actually looked at him and motioned to the book on the top of the stack and asked him to read to her – to keep her mind busy. The way her hand shook as she pointed was all he needed to see.

He picked up the book and began to read – a fairy story, of course. She was always so lost in fairy stories, even before. He wondered had she not seen enough, experienced to lose interest in them? But he settled back in the chair, opening the first page and starting the story of a young woman who gave up everything for the man she loved. She did this on purpose, he reasoned, and read with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth as he lulled through the words.

At first it is slow, intolerably slow. She wouldn't interrupt his reading for chapters at a time – where he would stop reading and watch her carefully, trying to gauge if maybe she mistook a terribly hard kick from the child (his child, after all, must have been strong), for some kind of worse pain. But, she'd stop, and he'd read more – filling the silence with the story, glad it was someone else's words, and not his. They were far less likely to get him into trouble with her.

But, the long spells of reading got slower and slower, and her interruptions became more… pronounced. He had continued on the pattern until she gasped and yelped, sliding down in the silky sheets, gritting her teeth and holding her breath until she finally released with a gasp. This was the cue to put the book on the ground and start to pus himself out of the chair, "My back," she practically mewed, on her side and eyes squeezed tight.

He could not honestly understand anything of what was going on. To him, she looked like she was going to pass out, or faint. She didn't though – another thing about women that just… perplexed him. They were capable of feeling such immense pain, at least he assumed it was immense, the way she whimpered like a kicked pup, and hissed.

In the absence of anything to do except make more tea or pick up the book again, which he thought might earn him harsh words from the woman, he finally rose from the chair and walked to the side of the bed she faced away from. He gingerly placed himself on it and rubbed her back in light circles, feeling the tension there, not even attempting to hide itself.

Belle swatted his hand away without remorse and glared at him, "This is your fault," she said through clenched teeth. "Do _not _touch me." He sprang up from his perch as quickly as he had sat down and held his hands up, as though she were the sheriff of Nottingham come to arrest him. _That had not gone as planned_, he thought as he slowly stepped back toward his place in the chair. She did not ask for the book again –_ just as well, it was getting to the truly tragic part. _

They continued in silence and Rumpelstiltskin felt restless. Unfortunately, he could not call for reinforcements yet. There had been at least an hour or so since the first, and Yaga had left fairly explicit instructions. He was also supposed to have her up and walking for some part of it – but the back nonsense had gone so poorly… For one of the first times he was upset he did not employ a staff so they might have to attend to her.

So much of her anger was already directed toward him (rightly so, some might say) that he strove to not upset her in this condition. Of course, when she calmed, and only felt minor discomfort the silence was slightly less tense, and he had little desire to disturb this peace.

The peace was not a permanent situation, of course, and as the time dragged on and the sun started to peek over the horizon and stream into the room, she went through more fits, and they got closer together: all in all, she was an unpleasant woman. It had not been so bad when it took an hour or so for her to feel anything, but then it got to 45 minutes… which also wasn't the worst… but then there was every half hour, which was markedly worse – and then fifteen minutes… which was just about grating on his last nerve. He bit his tongue so hard he could taste metal in his mouth, just to remind himself to keep quiet. Her ranting was irrational and part of him recognized he probably deserved every curse and admonishment she sent in his direction.

He wished he had paper on his lap to record some of his favorites, in order to share with her later, of course. (If he was going to have to endure any more of this, he would certainly get something out of it).

If they were on better terms, he might have laughed, teasing her about the sweet and amiable disposition she had when she was cleaning and performing domestic tasks, but right now, he did not speak, lest she lash at him with her flaying tongue.

Finally, when Rumpelstiltskin could take no more of her verbal assault, he was sure it was time to write. "I will be right back," he stood sharply and exited the room without waiting for her reply – which she did anyway, yelling as he walked down the hallway. He had to remind himself, repeatedly that the woman was tired and experiencing pain. It was difficult for him to contextualize, but he felt as though he knew well enough to leave it alone.

Summoning Yaga was noting more than transporting a piece of paper – a silly piece of magic, and she would be there in a flash. At his desk, he had the necessary tools, and sat to quickly jot down his note. _The sooner the better,_ he thought as he scrawled down his summons, folding it and stamping it closed with his seal. Placing it in a jewel encrusted box, he shut the lid and turned the key. When he twisted the key back and lifted the lid, the letter was gone, and he sighed – she was yelling again – though, blessedly, he couldn't hear the specifics.

He descended the stairs again, unwilling to be deterred by her anger, and took a deep breath through his nose, adjusting his collar, lost in thought until he was upon the bottom of the stairs and saw Yaga had let herself in. "Of our… deal?" she certainly would get straight to the point.

"She has not made her choice known to me," he replies simply, and truthfully. His long fingers are linked behind his back, his nails digging into his palms, "You'd do best to ask her – though, I would stray from it," he snorted, "beastly, she is"

Yaga's countenance was not quite as rueful as it might have been before and she passed by him toward Belle's room without a word. Maybe there was something in the air that was making all females (he relented from calling Yaga a woman… hag or crone, but not woman) irritable.

He shrugs and follows, hands still clasped behind his back. Yaga scoffs at him and rolls her eyes, "You have no part in this," she waves him off – no one dismissed Rumpelstiltskin, except well, the two women currently occupying the walls of the castle. But, that was neither here nor there at the moment. He made a face and she closed the door on him. The latch clicked, signaling he was locked out.

And then he had to wait.

At first, he walked away. There was no point in standing there, and it was not likely to be anytime soon, he was sure. So, he went to spin, it helped keep his mind off things – well, really, it helped him be busy while his mind was thinking of a thousand things. His hands could move without thinking about them, and he would be far enough away – at least he thought he would be far enough away.

He knew Belle was not a quiet woman by nature, but she possessed quite a set of lungs when she needed them. He could hear her from the main hall, or maybe he just convinced himself he could – because the sounds were unrecognizable as words. He must have been fooling himself and mulled it over before focusing on his wheel, that would help – and it would have worked too, if not for the fact that he completely bungled the whole thing up.

The thread was tangled in a ratty mess – that never happened, and he struggled with frustration to unknot it. It was magic, of course, which meant it wasn't going to snap, and as he thought he was at the root of the knot, he definitely heard her screech and he pulled at the wrong bit of knot and it became hopelessly tangled – he snarled and abandoned the wheel.

So, without that distraction, he decided to take another. It seemed as good a time as any to get ready for the day, considering the position of the sun, and he climbed the steps to his room, picking out whatever he could find first, sighing as her voice carried through the stone halls. Really, _blasted acoustics!_ It would be better though, he reasoned, ready for the day, and could put himself to something useful after almost six hours of sitting with Belle and another hour of fruitless spinning.

He went up to his laboratory of sorts, the kitchen of his potions and herbal mixes, hoping he could start to restock anything that might have been close to out of stock. The delicate work was interrupted by her cries, and he growls, frustrated as his hands slipped and a vial exploded in a puff of sulfur and soot.

Grabbing a cloth, he wiped his face and his hands, then magicked the whole thing away. What a waste of ingredients, he huffed, and tried to find something to busy himself with. There was the library, but, of course, he had to keep reading the same passages over and over, distracted beyond reason. He shut that pursuit with a huff and stalked toward the armory. Perhaps practicing sword skills… a sharp trill caused his steps to falter and he instantaneously reconsidered…

It was not like he was anxious, of course. It wasn't anything like that –he just… needed to escape the noise, and find something to do.

He thought about perhaps tending to the horses – it was usually done routinely, but he could spare a few moments to venture out... He started passing the room where he heard both women's voices in a terse "conversation" (Belle yelling, Yaga stern and demanding), and kept walking. He had a plan, and tt was best to make himself scarce on this side of the castle, or in the castle in general – but as he gets toward the end of the wing, his feet move slower and he listens more closely to the sounds echoing from down on the end.

Rumpelstiltskin groaned as he looked toward one of the windows with a much lighter draping (courtesy of Belle's tastes) and frowned. It had been nearly half a day. And – from what he heard, there was no sign that this process was getting easier for the girl… no, woman.

He did not worry though, he reminded himself, and tugged at his sleeves, it was something to do, after all. Dropping into one of the chairs in the wing, His legs sprawled out and he put his elbows on the arms, steepling his hands in front of his face. He can very clearly hear the two voices – so distinct from one another – but not the substance of what is going on. He convinced him his vigil would be a relaxing one, but with every incomprehensible sound, he sits up, then slides down again, then shifts from one side to the other, then is taken with suddenly standing.

It gets very hot quickly and he loosens his waistcoat, swallowing hard. It's been quite a long time, he thought to himself, and her words about her nightmare reverberate in his ears – but he assures himself he is the one with divining powers, and he has not felt anything of the sort about her. Of course, around her, he always felt like his sight was… clouded, like she baffled his ability to read and understand. _Damned woman and her accursed charm and beauty!_ If she had just been an ugly step-sister, it would have been so much easier, but then again, he wouldn't have taken her. He was a collector of beautiful things, after all.

His pacing now takes up most of his time, edging closer and closer to the door of her room. They have not emerged, though he knows there is anything but stillness in there. He can hear her, crying and protesting, and Yaga urging her forward without a hint of sympathy. He felt the impulse to yell at her, to have some compassion, but he reminded himself it wasn't his place – they were sure to both hiss and growl at him – no use going into the lioness' den.

Finally, as her hoarse cries became consistent and Yaga was instructing her to push, Rumpelstiltskin admitted he was, indeed nervous. It was becoming late in the afternoon. She must have been exhausted – he knew he was. He did not even _really_ need to sleep much, and he felt heavy with fatigue. She was not delicate, but she _was_ mortal.

Running his hand through his wiry hair, he felt his heart beating quickly and his claw-like nails scratched at his scalp. Everything in him contracted and went stock still when it was suddenly silent.


	9. The Word

**A/N:** Omgosh, thanks to everyone who has been so kind and wonderful in their reviews! I'm absolutely bowled over by how receptive and complimentary people are! I'm afraid we're getting close to the end of the story, but I really like this chapter (however short it might be), and hope that you all like it too! Again, thanks so much for all of the kind words and encouragement, I truly, truly appreciate it! Keep it coming, as it makes me smile (haha), and hopefully I'll continue to make you smile too!

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><p>Belle collapsed, panting and drenched in sweat. Her whole body felt suddenly light and detached, her head swimming and eyes closed, her chest heaving after the hardest thing she has ever done. "Ya-Yaga," she pushes her body up on shaking arms, hardly able to hold herself, vision blurry, "Yaga?" she is not answering fast enough.<p>

She could feel the tears already starting – there was no sound, and she couldn't see straight, her arms collapsed and she was ready to sob, to lay there and sob for weeks upon weeks because the very thing she had just worked tirelessly at bringing into this life was not making a sound. Her throat clenched and she suddenly realized that she was crying –when had she even started?

Her mouth opened to sob – but the sound was not her own cry. The piercing announcement of life was coming from the other side of the room and Belle felt a rush of adrenaline, enough to force her tired and worked muscles to push herself up, "Yaga?" she asked again, her voice cracking and shaking.

"Patience," cut the woman and Belle continued to cry, though no longer from horror and fear, but now from pure relief and joy. She fell back on the bed again and breathed deeply, devoid of the pressure and pain that had been so intense she thought she might have fainted dead away. Yaga must have been wrapping the baby, she thought in a hazy moment, that's why he or she – she didn't even know yet, wasn't crying anymore.

As her eyes fluttered closed, she was almost lulled into an immediate sleep when she heard Yaga, "Now, lovely, one more matter to attend to."

Belle opened her bleary eyes, her jaw just a little slack, "What?" she asked, dumbly with her blue eyes clouded in confusion and blankness. She rolled her head to the side she could see her – there was the bundle and the creamy white blanket wrapped around, just like in her dreams, but she saw a flash of smooth, pink flesh – not grey and pale (or green, for that matter)… _so pink_, she smiled weakly, despite her confusion.

"Well," she smiled that toothless smile, "you had a choice to make lovely, didn't you?" she cooed in a voice that was so different… she shifted the bundle in her arms, Belle heard a noise, like a whine, and her heart ached to have the bundle in her arms.

But, she was struck by the words of the woman. "My – my choice?" she asked, shaking and still breathing deeply. She had… it had been barely five minutes… she lifted her arm a little and outstretched her fingers, trying to indicate what she wanted, which was nothing more than to hold the perfect pink bundle of tiny person.

"Oh yes," she gargled, a gnarled knuckle caressing the cheek of her newborn, Yaga's good eye turned toward the child, hooked nose pronounced in this profile. "Come now, lovely, given her parentage, you can't imagine a life beyond these walls for such a delicate little creature."

Belle blinked, feeling her chest constrict, _a girl._ She was so wrong – her dreams had been all wrong. Her relief and excitement was tempered though, by Yaga's words. What was she saying? "But… she… she's mine!" Belle's voice trembled and Yaga cackled.

"Oh, she is yours; but such _dark_ eyes!" Belle longed to see them and she whined, her hand falling by her forehead, landing on her soaked curls – how long had it been? She felt like it was an eternity. "Wouldn't want anything else dark to influence a cherub, would we?" she was hinting.

Belle may have been exhausted, but she was still quick, and closed her eyes tight, pushing the thought from her mind: Rumpelstiltskin had hurt her; he had broken her heart a hundred times over – and she his, but – the child? Would he break her heart just as easily? Would they break this child? "What are you saying?" she asked, overcome with emotions and exhaustion, her voice still shaking.

Yaga smiled, though it was not comforting. Belle felt unnerved by the look she gave her, and the woman did not come closer. Belle felt a deep ache to touch her daughter and trace every curve of her face, memorize her weight and measure, but she was so far – and her body was so tired. She closed her eyes as she listened to Yaga, unable to look at her face and that unnerving smile. "A dank and dark castle, devoid of a family, isolated with veritable strangers coexisting – _using _– one another," she tsk'ed her tongue, "Not an environment for a darling girl to grow up in, don't you agree, Princess?"

Belle could not take anymore – she wanted to hold the child. She pushed herself back, even in the sullied bed, and tried to prop herself against pillows. "Please," she whined, low and sad, "I want to hold her."

"Not until you make the choice that is best," Yaga hisses at her, fully malicious now, and holding the child in her bony arms without what looked like any intention to let her go. Belle felt her stomach flip, empty and anxious, and she looked at the child, unsure of what she was going to do –perhaps in her arms it would make her feel what the right choice was – she so wanted her in her arms, to protect and shelter – she could hear a stifled mew come from the bundle – Belle's heart seized.

"Give her to me," Belle ordered in the strongest voice she could, outstretching her weak arms to be given the bundle. The crone walked a few steps forward and stopped at the edge of the bed.

She howled with a laugh, the bundle in her arms whined louder, and the crone bounced it gently. Belle wanted to be the one to comfort the flesh of her flesh. "Think," her voice danced around Belle's head – laced with truth, and everyone knew the truth could always hurt, "all alone in this place, with only you and a monster for company. This life of solitude and endless disappointment, sadness, weakness does not suit possibility. Flowers do not grow where there is no fertile soil, lovely. And the soil here," she practically hissed, "is poison."

But she had grown, Belle's mind protested – she had grown right here, inside of her, and the Gods did not give what should be taken away. She tried to open her mouth, but no words came out. She was… was she muted? Yaga continued, "She willl wilt, bend into darkness, like her father – hurt everyone around her," Belle's heart clenched in her chest, _was it true?_

"Now, lovely," she smiled, voice twisting and turning Belle's thoughts, "All you have to do is say the word and this little _treat_ could have everything."

It was as though the vice on her voice was broken, but Belle's throat was hitched and she felt the tears leaking out of her eyes again – _what was best?_ Yaga pointed out the solitude the little girl undoubtedly would face, and Belle… did she want that for something so precious? She wrestled with herself, and choked out a sob before croaking, "Why?" she sniffed, "why do you care?"

The door was rattling now, and Belle was too lost in her own thoughts and pain to realize. She weakly reached out again, so wishing she was not in the aftermath of something so traumatic and long that she could not get up even if she wished to. "Doing my job, lovely," she replied candidly, though her smirk told Belle there was something else – and the way she eyed the bundle… "Ensuring the well-being of such a _sweet_ is my business."

Belle cried quietly, her tears unrelenting, and her shoulders shaking, but not accompanied by sound. The latch on the door lifted and Rumpelstiltskin stood in the doorway, glowering and a fright, unbuttoned waistcoat and hair a mess. His face was severe, but fell on the bundle and shifted to stunned. "The _proud_ sire," Yaga's voice was mocking, and Belle felt her heart plummet in her chest, perhaps the communication between them was more about Rumpelstiltksin's wishes than Yaga's, "was not invited in yet."

His moment of surprise was quickly turned in darkness. His voice was low and rumbling, eyes flashing. Belle's chest clenched and a soft whine came from the bundle – making her face contort with another silent sob, "It is _her_ choice, Yaga. Do not manipulate her," his lip curled.

"I am doing nothing but speaking the truth," she was so casual, as though she was holding a cabbage and not the newborn that Belle so desperately wished to have in her arms. "You could not possibly think she or the child would be happy here?" she raised her eyebrows. "You are more of a fool than I remember," she cackled and turned away – Belle lost sight of her daughter and whimpered.

Rumpelstiltskin looked at her, and Belle met his eyes, her face wrought with pain after hours of labor and confused with pain and exhaustion. "Look at her," he demanded the old woman, "She has made her choice," he hissed.

"Well _she_ has to say it," the crone shot back, glaring with her good eye, the bad one seemingly having gotten dark. "Or the babe comes with me." Belle cried out, and shook her head vigorously, despite the way it made her mind swim and eyes lose focus in the most unpleasant way possible.

"She is mine!" Belle declared, her voice laden with a sob, and she collapsed on the pillows, overcome with emotion and exhaustion.


	10. Names

**A/N: **WOW! Can I just say: a HUGE thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! Like omgosh, I so appreciate every kind word and bit of excitement - I'm so sad to see this story coming to a close. I hope everyone who has been faithfully R&R'ing will continue to do so, and stick with it until the end! We still have one chapter left after this! Before this chapter starts: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!

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><p>She did not know how long it is before she woke up. But, it was dark. There was a fire quietly crackling in the fireplace and her eyes flutter open and the shut again, letting out a sigh, thinking perhaps everything was a dream. After all, she was no longer drenched in sweat and the room smelled clean… her sheets were soft against her skin and she stretched – or at least started to. A sharp pain seized her, her muscles clenching and she instantly knew she had not dreamed.<p>

Of course, then a panic set in. Her eyes shot open and she looked around the room, feeling wild and scared. It took a long moment, her blood rushed through her body with such speed and intensity it was all she could hear, and she saw stars, any call for help died on her lips as she was drowned out by the sound of her own blood.

When her eyes did adjust, Belle could not stop the tears that leaked out of the corner of her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin sat by the fire, in her chair with the bundle in his arms, still wrapped in the creamy soft blanket. He was dozing, as it appeared her – _their_ – daughter was as well, so peaceful and, illuminated by the flames, _breathtaking_. He looked softer too, the lines of his face eased. Belle still ached to hold her though – _she without a name_, she thought for a moment and gasped when the bundle started to move, a whine on her perfect lips.

The sound was soft at first and Belle longed to get up and grab her, but her body was still spent and searing with pain. She used just about all the strength she could to sit up taller and sighed when the baby's protests got louder. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, eyes blinked and gasped at the sound.

He instantly looked over at Belle and apologetically smiled, adjusting the bundle in his arms before standing, securing her so tightly as though he feared dropping her and remained calm despite her high-pitched cries. He pursed his lips. "I do believe," he murmured softly, "the little miss is hungry," he approached.

Belle looked at him nervously, and her arms were most assuredly shaking as he transferred the little miss, as he called her, into her arms. It was the closest Belle had seen her, and she was beautiful, even while crying. Her eyes were closed, so she could not see just how dark they were, but she could see the dark tufts of hair upon her soft head, and her round, rosy cheeks with thin, but shapely lips. "How do you know?" she asked, looking at him nervously – suddenly concerned she would not figure any of this out.

"Previous experience," he said simply and she flushed, remembering the story of his lost son. Belle's stomach fluttered as the newborn wriggled in her arms, crying and searching for its main desire, food. Instinct overtook (with a healthy dose of instruction from her previous research), and though fumbling and guilt for not moving faster, the child took to her and she felt such a rush of pure… was it joy? She knew she had made the right choice.

He did not immediately retreat, and Belle was actually glad for it. They were both looking at the face of the sum of their parts. Something did not sit well with her though, and she looked at him with furrowed brow and pursed lips, "What did Yaga mean, Rumpelstiltskin?"

He looked stricken for a moment, ripped out of the reality of watching their daughter and his eyes moved to Belle's face. He swallowed hard, Belle could see, and her jaw set. Her suspicion was being confirmed merely by his facial expressions. "You need not worry about it, dearie," he glazed over the issue.

Belle was not ready to drop it. However much she wanted to send her moments cooing and smiling and crying, she did not like what she had heard. "Rumpelstiltskin," he stopped at his name – Belle remembered his words: _names have power_. "What did Yaga mean?" she was not playing around, and she hoped her tone perfectly conveyed that to him.

"Our deal was dependent upon your choice and," his voice dropped, eyes trailing up and over her head, as though he was looking at something in the distance, "no one breaks deals with me." His voice was hard enough that she could only imagine what had occurred, but it still did not answer her question – at least not to her satisfaction.

She would have pressed, but the little miss appeared to be done and Belle lifted her face closer to her own, slowly and carefully, patting her back – her hand was almost as wide as the little girl's back. It was a wonder, a miracle, and she patted softly, like she had read, as the little girl fussed. "She wanted her?" Belle asked straight out, looking at the beautiful little bundle in her arms.

"She has a… propensity… toward taking the fruits of her efforts," he rolled his words delicately, but always so theatrical, pauses and all. Belle felt the corners of her eyes prick and her nasal passage was all pressure. She shook her head, looking at her little girl and was pleased that she had settled. Soreness be damned, she was just happy to holding her and feeling her. Her fingers ran over the little girl's soft skin and it made Belle shiver.

She finally dropped the subject when her small eyelids fluttered open, and Belle felt such a rush. Her eyes were chocolate and gold, and catching a glimpse of them, even for a moment was more than enough for Belle to be overwhelmed. Everything else seemed so insignificant in that moment. Belle giggled softly, so enamored with the little beauty that she could not help but press a tender kiss to the girl's forehead. "She is not green and scaly," she finally says, glancing at him only for a moment.

"She is not," his voice was full and thick, the accent he did so much to try to hide seeping through his usual tone. She giggled and he smiled – one of those rare grins, the kind she remembered from before, "she's also a she, so it appears neither of us are going to be doing any fortune telling in the near future." He poked fun at her! After everything, he was poking fun and Belle pouted. He smiled, and she could not hold onto her expression.

Their eyes met and time passed awkwardly for a moment, tension hanging in the air. He broke first – he almost always did. "I," he paused, and reconsidered, "would it be fair, to start over?" he asked, leaning over the bed and doing an awfully poor job at looking comfortable.

Belle knows what he meant, but she was not a woman who would dare let him get away with not explaining himself. "What do you mean?" she asked, feigning innocence, and speaking in the voice she would always use on the baby, the nameless infant in front of them, taking more to her than him, "what ever could he mean, little miss?" she repeated with a giggle, tickling under her chin, causing the bundle to squirm.

He cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, adjusting his collar. He did that when he was thinking of what to say and he sighed. "You know what I mean," he sounded agitated and she sighed. Pride was something they both suffered so violently with, and when wounded, they did not back down.

"I don't think I do," she pressed her nose against the tiny button of a nose of their daughter and breathed in her smell – so new and fresh to the world. Everything about her was intoxicating, and Belle could be drunk on her forever, she decided, running the back of her index finger over her cheek as she softly rocked her. Pulling her face back enough to glance up at him, "well?"

He sniffed and leaned forward, his hand brushing one of her messy curls from her face, sitting on the bed next to her, his arm seamlessly draped behind her and around her shoulders and back. She didn't move away, instead, leaned into his warmth, sighing. "She is bonnie," he lilted quietly, leaning his temple against hers. Belle nodded, and looked at him, her blue eyes accusing him, and he sighed – powerless. "I am sorry," he finally said it – for the first time.

A wave of relief passed through her and her shoulders dropped, leaning her head against him, enjoying the feeling of being in a situation where she does not feel the need to strangle him, or yell, or cry, and simply smiles. "Me too." He had to say it first.

"She needs a name," He pointed out, the arm that was not drawing small circles on her upper arm curled around her elbow and rested against her hand, supporting the miniscule weight of the child. Belle nodded and shifted her fingers so they interchange, hers and his, almost as though interlocked, but supporting the child in her arms.

Belle rested her head comfortably on his chest, and he pressed his lips to her temple. How she yearned to kiss him, but refrained, understanding their circumstance – and nodded. "I need more time," she declared with a rueful smile, glancing up at him through heavy lidded eyes and thick lashes.


	11. Cup Bearer

**A/N: **Here it is folks, the end! I'm so glad that people have enjoyed the narrative and spent the time reading and reviewing, it means so much to me! It's really gotten me back into writing again, and I couldn't thank you all enough for that! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope you enjoy the last fluff-tastic section and I hope if I should write anything else, you all will continue to enjoy that too! I've really enjoyed, I hope you enjoyed, and let's get on with the last section!

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><p><strong>Five years later. <strong>

It was spring and all of the draperies were down, as they were every year at the first sign of a comfortable day. His girls spent most of their days in the garden, or going back and forth to town (not without protection, of course), or even in the library, if the weather did not allow for outdoor activities – and he joined them, occasionally, particularly in the garden. They both looked so right surrounded by flowers.

It was unfortunate that it was raining as he sat in front of his spinning wheel. They were surely working diligently in the library – Belle's definition of a princess' education was perhaps not the one she had been granted, but she was giving the Dark Princess quite the education. When he looked up at the sounds of the main hall doors opening, he grinned.

The chestnut haired cherub rushed forward, something large hugged to her chest as her slipper-covered feet padded across the carpeting in the main hall. The golden eyed mischief maker squealed with delight, "Papa! It is tea time!"

She stopped short of the wheel, just barely, dropping the object in her arms – now revealed to be a book to throw her arms out to keep her balance. Rumpelstiltskin was up before she could topple over and swept her up into his arms, hauling the slender child up in the air, eliciting a squeal of joy – clumsy and always needing saving from the next fall, _just like her mother_, he thought and laughed at his darling girl. "What did you have there, Little Miss?"

Belle smiled at them as she entered, carrying the tray with three teacups on it, along with a plate of what appeared to be biscuits _– and was that blackberry preserves_?… to the table. "Mama's favorite book," she answered matter-of-factly, indicating with the anxious open-close of her fingers that she wanted to be down to retrieve it. Belle contentedly poured tea, and he regarded his Dark Queen with a deep, contented breath, placing the princess back on the ground to grab the book.

"And which book is that?" he asked, making a show of walking across the floor and performing a grand flourish of a bow before kissing his queen on the cheek. There was nothing desperate or depressing about this anymore, it is just a fact of their existence, and he slid his hands to the small swell of her stomach. Their darling girl would not grow up in isolation.

Belle rolled her eyes at him and swatted his hands away, their daughter giggling with delight. "I think you know it well, Papa," Belle cut in, wrinkling her freckle dusted nose, "Don't you think so, Heilyn?" they had laughed when they picked it; it meant cup bearer, and then nothing else seemed to fit.

"Oh yes!" she agreed emphatically, her blue dress – it complimented her so well – swishing around her never resting feet. She held up the well worn cover, and Rumpelstiltskin immediately recognized it.

"Is Mama filling your head with fairy stories, darling girl?" he asked with a bright laugh and crouched onto Heilyn's level, tilting his head to the side in such an exaggerated way that she erupted into a sea of giggles, throwing her arms around his neck and locking her hands tight. "Oh yes," she breathed with brightness that could only come from her.

He scooped her and the book into his arms, standing up straight and looking to the mother of such a blessed creature with a wicked smile before placing the book on the table and as carefully as possible tickling her exposed underarms. Heilyn howled and squirmed, Rumpelstiltskin held onto her for dear life. "Well, I assume that means I am to be reading this afternoon," he looked at her with a serious face.

She returned the face, matching his expression – she may have _looked _like Belle, but she certainly had the same flare for the dramatic that he possessed, if he did say so himself. "I like it best when you read," she answered honestly, looking over his shoulder at Belle. He sneaked a glance back and she pretended to be hurt, "Papa does the voices best!" Heilyn squirmed uncomfortably, she hated even pretend upsetting her mama, "but you read much prettier," she announced, trying to be democratic, and Belle grinned at her, apology clearly accepted.

"Come then," he balanced everything in his arms – far more graceful than Belle, a point of contention, and settled into the arm chair he preferred, Heilyn on one knee, his chipped cup on the opposite arm, and the book in his lap. Belle took her seat in her armchair, tea in one hand, knitting needles in the other, and he flipped to the first page of the story.

He did not need to look at the words as he recited the story of the young woman who gave up everything for the man she loved. He performed to his audience, voicing each of the characters, exploring the narrative he was so familiar with, and met Belle's eyes as he did so, a secret smile between them.

Their existence was not entirely peaceful. They fought; they fought enough for three lifetimes, though never in front of Heilyn, if they could help it. But it was a… partnership – as they were equals here (sometimes, she asserted she was the one who held the real power – and sometimes, he did not disagree), and in the Dark Castle, that was enough.

In this moment, with his daughter on his knee, a story as appropriate as this being played out for her amusement, with his voice carrying the narrative, and her shrill laughter and rapt attention focused on him, and Belle sitting across from them listening, he got lost in the story for a moment, and Heilyn's golden eyes until he realized, in the middle of the speech by the evil king all he heard was _click-clack_, ringing in his ears.

**END**


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